


The Model Partner

by RobinLeStrange



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Pining, Post Lethal White, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-10 02:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19898722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLeStrange/pseuds/RobinLeStrange
Summary: Set sixth months after Lethal White, Robin and Strike are struggling to get to grips with their hidden feelings for one another now they are both single. When Robin goes undercover at London Fashion Week and hears Ciara Porter discussing her long-ago night with Strike with another model, she decides to take matters into her own hands.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> My first Strike fanfic and first time posting on here, so please be gentle with me! Still a work in progress but aiming to have it up in full by the end of the month (July 2019) - I know it's not fun having to wait for the good stuff ;)

The Tottenham was filling up rapidly with after work drinkers as Robin placed a second pint of Doom Bar and another large glass of white wine on the table and dropped back into a chair opposite Strike.  
“Cheers,” he said, taking a hefty gulp. “So, are you all ready for tomorrow?”  
“Yup,” she replied, setting down her own glass. “Cover story, tech, outfit, disguise…speaking of which,” she glanced at her watch, “I better get going after this one, I’ve got a spray tan booked at 7.30.”  
Strike spluttered into his beer, “Spray tan? Do you think you might be taking this foray into the modelling world a bit too seriously Miss Ellacott?”  
She grinned. “I’m just a backstage assistant for the next few days as well you know. To be honest, I’m nervous…we’re both more likely to be recognised after the Shacklewell Ripper and Chiswell cases.” She paused, not entirely sure whether to draw attention to what was bothering her most. As usual, Strike saw through her in a heartbeat.  
“And?” he prompted.  
“Ciara Porter is going to be there. She’s walking for loads of designers. Now admittedly she’s highly unlikely to remember me, given that it’s been a good couple of years since we last met, and of course taking into account that you made far more of an impression…” she smirked, and raised an eyebrow at Strike, who had the decency to blush very slightly at her reference to the night he had spent with the model just a couple of weeks after Robin had come to work for him as a temp.  
“I’m sure I’m not that memorable,” he mumbled into his pint, then regaining his equilibrium, “Anyway, I still think you might be going a bit OTT this time. You suit pale and interesting.”  
She smiled. “Well to be honest, I can think of better ways to spend my evening than prancing round in tiny paper pants in front of a complete stranger and going home smelling of biscuits, but I’d rather not take any chances.”  
“Biscuits? You should have had it done on the way into work this morning…I’d have been very happy with you wafting around the office smelling of biscuits.”  
Or in tiny pants, the unsolicited thought popped into his brain. He felt his face colouring and prayed that in this slightly murky corner of the pub Robin wouldn’t notice.  
He was in luck, by the time he looked up she was finishing her last mouthful of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc and gathering her things.  
“You get through enough biscuits without me encouraging you,” she laughed. “Right, I’m off, I’ll be in touch as soon as I have anything interesting to report, ok?”  
“Fine, just check in at the end of the day otherwise, let me know how it goes?”  
“Will do, night!”  
And he watched as she manoeuvred her way through the crowded pub and headed off to her appointment.

***

As Robin headed to the beauty salon on the Tube, she reflected on how good she and Strike had gotten at playing this game. It was six months since she’d left Matthew, her decree nisi had been granted and it was just a matter of a few weeks grace until she could apply for the absolute. In that time she’d moved into a flat share with a lovely, handsome and very gay man, largely conquered the horrific panic attacks that had plagued her since the ripper case and her role as Strike’s business partner had gone from strength to strength. On a more personal level however, their relationship was…frustrating.

The tension that had hung between them after her wedding had long since dissipated, taking them back to the comfortable, friendly partnership they had been previously. But there was something else. Neither of them had so much as been on a date since their heart to heart at Newbury towards the end of the Chiswell case. Whilst not surprising for Robin, it was unusual for Strike to be without some kind of female company for that length of time, and she was well aware that certainly hadn’t been short of offers. Then there were the subtle, back handed compliments, the more frequent trips to the pub after work (Robin tried to convince herself that it was simply a case of neither of them having anything better to do), and the occasional double entendre when those pub visits lasted a glass or two too long.  
Robin congratulated herself on having done an excellent job of disguising her awareness of Strike’s reaction to her comment about prancing around in nothing but paper pants. It had taken him a second or two to compose himself, by which time she was gathering her handbag and coat. But she hadn’t failed to notice the colour rising up his cheeks or his somewhat glazed expression as his pupils dilated.  
She let out a huge sigh. For fuck’s sake she thought, how much longer could they carry on like this?  
***  
Strike finished his beer in a couple of large gulps after Robin left. Drinking alone no longer held the appeal it once had and he’d not eaten for hours. He headed from the pub to the local chippy and then home, where he collapsed in his armchair and watched the highlight’s of the previous evening’s Arsenal game on catch up as he ate his haddock and chips with curry sauce straight from the paper, washed down with his customary mug of creosote coloured tea.  
The match did an adequate job of distracting him for half an hour, but then he glanced at his watch. 7.40pm…Robin would be having her spray tan right now. He felt his veins coursing with electricity – like having a restless leg but all over his body. He picked up his laptop and checked his emails but his mind went back there…NO! Bloody pack it in!  
He paced his tiny flat, tidying anything and everything, but as a displacement activity it failed dismally, occupying his body but doing nothing to set his mind at rest.   
Six months…six long months during which every remotely personal exchange they’d shared had been etched on his brain. Strike had always prided himself on his near eidetic recall, but now it seemed more like a curse. He could keep the memories at bay for days, sometimes weeks at a time if the agency was really busy, but then something would happen…a slightly risqué remark, a brush of fingertips as coffee cups were exchanged, a glance that shouldn’t have been noticed but lingered just a fraction of a second too long. And he’d be back on the stairs at Robin’s wedding reception, his arms around her waist, her scent – roses and vanilla – in his nose; or he’d be back outside the hospital having just left his nephew’s bedside reliving the first and only time their lips had actually touched, albeit briefly and by accident when his kiss of thanks had missed her cheek.  
It didn’t matter how much he analysed it all, there was no definitive answer. Sometimes, late at night he convinced himself that he wasn’t imagining the subtle shift in their relationship, that he needed to say something, to tell her how he felt, and that there was a good chance she’d respond in kind. But inevitably in the cold light of day the realisation dawned that it was impossible. He was too old and had too much baggage. She was ten years his junior, achingly beautiful, bright and funny and no doubt destined for marriage and motherhood at some stage, neither of which were remotely on his agenda. Above all it wasn’t worth risking the working relationship they already had, not to mention their genuine friendship, which had taken so long to recover from her ill-fated marriage.

Strike had a quick, cool shower, as much due to the vagaries of his ancient boiler than any deliberate attempt to get his libido under control. Then, having brushed his teeth and dealt with his prosthesis and fell into bed. By the time he’d made a final check of his messages and set his alarm, the effect of the cold shower had begun to wear off and once again he found himself thinking of Robin.   
He turned first one way, then they other, trying to ignore his body’s automatic reaction as his head filled with images of her, memories of moments they’d shared and all the near misses they seemed to have had recently.  
He tried to recall the names of all forty-nine battalions of the British Army in alphabetical order as a means of distracting himself, but it wasn’t challenging enough. Cattulus, he thought, running through the Latin poems in his head, in numerical order to see which he remembered. As a tactic it was monumentally unsuccessful, as he discovered halfway through silently reciting Cattulus 5.

Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred,  
then another thousand, then a second hundred,  
then yet another thousand more, then another hundred.  
Then, when we have made many thousands,  
we will mix them all up so that we don't know,  
and so that no one can be jealous of us when he finds out  
how many kisses we have shared.

“Bollocks!” he murmured out loud, turning to look at the time on his mobile phone and realising that he had to be up in less than five hours’ time to meet Wardle coming off a night shift.  
He rolled into his back and sighed with frustration. He’d always managed to resist going down this road, but now in his tiny attic bedroom, cocooned from the real world a tiny voice in his head was telling him, what’s the harm? No one will find out, thousands of people probably fantasise about their colleagues…  
He flipped his pillows onto the cool side, leant back and slipped his hand beneath the crisp cotton covered duvet, allowing his head to flood once more with images of strawberry blonde hair, pale skin and soft, full russet coloured lips.  
It doesn’t mean anything, continued the voice in his head.  
He groaned softly as his hand set the correct rhythm and his mind fell further down a rabbit hole to which it had previously been denied access.  
“Doesn’t it?” He thought.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin dons her disguise and enters the madness of London Fashion Week to investigate a dangerous drug popular on the fashion scene.

The following morning Robin’s alarm woke her an hour earlier than usual, allowing her ample time to prepare for the day ahead and get herself into a mindset suited to a backstage assistant at London Fashion Week. She jumped straight in the shower and gently scrubbed the spray tan residue from her skin, admiring the warm bronze tone it had created, whist simultaneously thinking that she really couldn’t be arsed with that kind of faff on a regular basis. She layered matching body lotion and perfume, an inexpensive brand that smelt of citrus and patchouli, quite unlike her usual preference, then it was time for the real work.

She dressed in a carefully selected outfit, aiming for a stylish but understated vibe. A black, silk mix turtleneck, perfectly fitted skinny jeans, comfortable but elegant black patent kitten heels, plus a statement necklace and earrings in brightly coloured acrylic. She slipped in the chocolate brown contact lenses she’d bought especially for this job, and applied her makeup, taking extra care with her foundation due to the change of skin tone. Eschewing her typical neutrals, she carefully fashioned black wings of liquid eyeliner on her lids and topped them with subtle but high-quality false lashes, before carefully outlining and then filling her lips with crimson. Finally, she brushed her hair back tightly into a hairnet and fixed the black bobbed wig into place. The end result was a combination of Beatnik poet meets Robert Palmer backing singer and she grinned at her reflection in the mirror, happy with the result and confident that she would definitely go unrecognised by anyone she met behind the scenes.

Her thoughts drifted once again to Ciara Porter. She’d seemed pleasant enough when Robin had briefly met her, more genuine than she’d expected of a model and with a warmth about her that belied her ice queen image. She supposed it wasn’t surprising, she couldn’t imagine Strike having even a one-night bunk up with someone who wasn’t a fundamentally decent human being.

 _Doesn’t explain sixteen years with bloody Charlotte_ , said a malicious voice in her head, as she shrugged on a black leather biker jacket, borrowed from a friend of her flatmates for her current role. She mentally chastised herself for obsessing about him yet again and wondered just how much longer she could keep up this charade that she saw him as just a friend and business partner, which, much to her chagrin, kept her occupied until she arrived at Somerset House forty minutes later.

For all her preparation and research beforehand, she was still taken aback by the three-ring circus that awaited her at the venue for that year’s London Fashion Week.

“Claudia Rowntree,” she stated clearly, flashing her ID card as the ice blonde woman at the security desk gave her a scathing once over. Robin, smiled brightly back, hoping she hadn’t made a massive sartorial cock-up and let out a small hiss of relief when she saw Guy Somé heading towards her as she made her way through the barriers. Guy, or as he had been christened, Kevin, had also assisted Robin and Strike on the case of Lula Landry, who had, to all intents and purposes been his muse before she was pushed to her death from the balcony of her luxury flat. Strike had been dubious about reaching out to him for help, not convinced of his discretion, but they had little choice as neither of them had any other fashion world contacts who could get them behind the scenes. As it turned out he had been more than happy to help facilitate their investigation into the supply and dealing of a new and particularly volatile drug which seemed to be particularly prevalent in the modelling world, due to its reputation as an appetite suppressant. Guy had a young cousin who had been tempted by drugs whilst in the grip of a tenacious eating disorder and only just escaped with her life, and readily agreed to hire Robin as one of his assistants.

“Claudia…darling!” He greeted her with a wink and a hug, recognising her from the selfie she’d texted him on her way in and ushered her on a lengthy walk to the area he had been designated backstage. Sectioned off from the neighbouring designers the space was already filled with rails of clothing and piles of show boxes, each labelled with a Polaroid displaying its contents and the name of the model for who the pair was destined. Tables of make-up and hair products were illuminated with multiple LEDs and a small glass-doored fridge in one corner was stocked with expensive mineral water and copious quantities of champagne.

He handed her over to his real assistant, Ines Bisset, who ran through the schedule for the show that afternoon and set her to painstakingly checking over each of the garments to ensure that no damage had occurred during transit. At 11am the models began to arrive, and Robin began to truly feel like she was inhabiting another universe. When they’d met with Guy two years ago it had been during a photo shoot, and later at his studio. This was Robin’s first experience of a catwalk show and she couldn’t help but be in awe of the striking creatures that surrounded her. They were beautiful and graceful and exceedingly thin. She recalled the weeks prior to her wedding, when she’d switched her usual lunchtime sandwich, cereal bar and latte for miso soup in order to make sure her dress looked as beautiful on her as it did on the hanger. She couldn’t imagine having to eat like that all the time, and just the thought of it made her crave a cheese and pickle barm and a ‘fat rascal’ – a plump, fruity scone slathered in butter that was her favourite treat from ‘Betty’s’ tea shop whenever she visited her family in Yorkshire. She was roused from her epicurean musings by Guy flying into the room and looking round desperately like a whirling dervish.  
  
“Where the fuck is she? Has anyone heard from her?”  
  
The make up artists looked mystified and slightly nervous. One or two of the models already in attendance eyed Guy knowingly but if they were aware of who he was talking about seemed determined to give nothing away.  
  
“Seriously, one of you must know what the fuck she’s playing at? If we’re a model down then none of the bloody choreography works and the whole thing is shot to shit!”

As he finished the sentence, Ines swirled into the room, bringing with her a welcome vibe of calm efficiency.

“Guy, sit down, calm down, I have news,” she steered him towards a purple crushed velvet banquette and handed him a glass of chilled Laurent Perrier champagne.

“It had better be that Mariella is in the khazi and will be here in about 15 seconds.” 

“No such luck I’m afraid, she’d got food poisoning but…” 

“Food poisoning?!" spat Guy, "The woman doesn’t fucking eat.”

Robin stifled a somewhat inappropriate snort of laughter from behind the clothes rail.

  
“…but…” continued Ines, unruffled but Guy’s reaction, “…I’ve called Ciara. She’s not on until the Versace show tomorrow afternoon and she’s on her way now, should be here in about twenty-five minutes.”  
  
“Twenty-five minutes, plus hair and makeup,” Guy was calculating, “That gives her half an hour tops rehearsal time…”  
  
“You know Ciara, she always pulls it out of the bag somehow,” soothed Ines, “It will be fine.”

Behind the clothes rail, Robin felt her stomach turn, but seconds later Ines appeared with a new list of instructions, and she was kept thoroughly occupied until she’d almost forgotten about Ciara’s impending arrival.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciara Porter arrives to save the day, but her behind-the-scenes girl talk sets Robin's mind wandering. Guy gives Robin a gift, and inadvertently, some good advice.

The atmosphere backstage was ramping up as showtime approached and Robin was kept so busy she’d almost forgotten about Ciara’s imminent arrival, until she heard several screeches of welcome from the other models.

Ciara had been on the scene for years and Robin’s impression of her was largely correct. She had plenty of good friends in the industry and the younger girls looked up to her, whilst she was happy to play big sister to them. Robin twitched the curtain behind which she was working so she could peek through into the dressing room area. Even with no make up and her platinum blonde hair tied up in a damp ponytail, Ciara was stunning. She was wearing black skintight trousers with knee high suede boots with a small platform and heels that took her height to over six foot. Her cream silk shirt was largely covered by a deep purple woollen wrap.

“Darling,” she threw her arms around one of her friends, tossing the wrap aside as she did so. “How the hell are you? I hope you’re behaving yourself today,” she said with a wink, “I believe we may be being watched.”

Sorcha McLeod rolled her eyes and held her hands up on mock surrender, affecting a terrible cockney accent, “Clean as a whistle guv!” she laughed, before continuing in her usual home counties tones, “Isn’t it that guy you had a fling with that’s investigating this drugs business? Cameron something. He’d stick out like a sore thumb here, don’t think we’d have much to worry about.”

“Cormoran Strike,” smiled Ciara, and the somewhat wistful expression on her face didn’t go unnoticed, particularly by Guy who had just walked in.

“Fuckin’ hell, Ciara, still? If we have to have 50 Shades of Cormoran bloody Strike yet again for God’s sake get in the chair and do it while you’re having your hair and make-up done,” he passed her a glass of champagne and his expression softened, “…and thank you for saving my arse.”

“Anything for you, darling,” she winked, taking a large swig of bubbly and settling herself in the chair nearest to the storage area.

Robin had switched on the sensitive recording device in her pocket as soon as Ciara mentioned the case, hoping that there would be more information to come. She was somewhat nonplussed when the conversation took an altogether different direction. Sorcha was a relatively new friend of Ciara’s and as such was one of the few people who didn’t know the more salacious details of the night she’d shared with the one-legged detective. Her interest was piqued by Guy’s comment and she was nothing if not enthusiastic about gossip.

“C’mon on then Ciara,” she said, parking herself on a nearby stool, “Spill the beans then…if you’re still talking about this bloke two years later, he must really be something else in the sack.”

“Sorcha!” Ciara feigned shock with a twinkle in her eye, “A lady never tells.”

“Yeah, well we all know you’re no lady…and you can’t blame a girl for being curious. I mean, I get that the battered, rough around the edges look is attractive, but to be honest I can’t imagine a guy who’s known for an exemplary military career and a single on/off relationship with the craziest aristo-bitch in London having the skills to match.”

Behind the curtain, Robin bristled at the jokingly scathing description of her business partner, before the inevitable wondering about his bedroom skills kicked in and she blushed to the roots of her wig. As it turned out, she didn’t have to wonder for very long. Ciara smirked, and her eyes lit up. For all her feigned protestations she was clearly more than happy to retell the story.

“So, you know all about Lula Landry right?” she started, “Cormoran was looking into it all for her brother, the one that turned out to have actually killed her…so fucked up, poor baby, anyway…” She continued with the details of their ill-fated trip to Uzi, Evan Duffield’s tantrum and the taxi drive back to her flat when things had briefly turned flirtatious. “So, it turned out that we actually had quite a lot in common, both interested in literature, French in my case. Cormoran had been at Oxford and was quite into the Russian and Latin stuff…then his mum died and dropped out – you know she was a model too, absolute legend back in the day…”

Robin continued working behind the curtain, whist trying to make sense of her feelings. Disappointment that nothing more relevant to the case was being discussed, a sense of pleasure that Ciara was speaking well of her partner, and a subtle prickling at her using his first name. Strike was known by many names to many people but as far as Robin knew, she was the only one who called him Cormoran on a regular basis. It rankled to hear it coming from another woman’s lips.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve only got ten minutes,” interrupted Sorcha, impatiently, “Get to the good stuff already.”

“Rude,” Ciara pouted, “Okay, so he asked me about Evan coming back after he and Lula rowed and I told him, Lula was one of my best friends, and besides I didn’t like pretty boys…and, well, I guess he took it the hint and it went from there, although…”

“What…what?!”

Robin, having completed her tasks, meandered around the corner and helped herself to a glass of champagne in time to see Ciara blushing beneath the hairdresser’s deft fingertips.

“Well, oh God I probably shouldn’t say this, but it was so sweet. Before we…erm...got going…he actually asked if I’d been with his brother or his dad – I’d mentioned earlier in the day that I knew them.”

“And had you?”

“No I bloody hadn’t – what did you think it was – Rokeby Bingo?”

Robin choked on her drink and turned her attention swiftly away from the dressing room, whilst still listening attentively.

“So, how was it? As I said, if you’re still talking about him two years later, he must have been pretty spectacular. Did the third leg make up for missing bit of the second one?” she grinned cheekily at her friend.

“God, Sorcha, you are so crude.” Ciara was feeling slightly self-conscious by now. This was a story she normally told late at night fuelled by considerably more alcohol and occasionally, other substances. Unlike Sorcha, she was also mindful of the fact that some of the other models in the room were only in their teens, and there was only so much she was willing to discuss with that kind of audience.

“Neither his leg nor his cock were an issue if you want to be blunt about it,” she lowered he voice slightly. “…and as for spectacular, well he certainly knew what he was doing, and not just with the obvious body part if you get my drift…”

“Okaaaay, now you’re talking,” grinned Sorcha, delighted to finally be getting to some of the smutty details.

Ciara tutted and shook her head, “So much interest in someone else’s sex life…you really need to get laid, darling.”

“But for now I’ll enjoy living vicariously…go on.”

“Look I’m not giving you the full chapter and verse here,” she glanced at the younger girls and pointed at the clock, “I wouldn’t have time anyway,” she shot Sorcha a teasing grin. “Cormoran was a nice guy though. You know how sometimes you have a one-nighter with a guy and it’s just physical…scratching an itch? Especially if they’ve just split up with someone, which he had. He wasn’t like that. We both knew from the start it wasn’t going to go anywhere but he was still very respectful and…considerate. He put a lot of time and effort into making sure I was happy,” she grinned at the memory, “very happy...several times over in fact.”

Guy strode into the room with Ines just behind him, “Right that’s enough about your sex life Ciara. Clothes, shoes, let’s get going – we’ve only got half an hour to rehearse and we’re going to need every second…spit spot.”

The remainder of the afternoon passed in a blur of fabric, sequins and glitter as Robin and the other assistants helped the models change, sorted clothed into piles as they came off the cat walk, took enquiries and generally did whatever was needed to facilitate making Guy’s clothes look as fabulous as possible. After hearing Ciara’s monologue, Robin was hugely distracted, but thankfully her role required only so much brain power. She’d spent longer than she cared to admit trying not to wonder what it would be like with Strike, but now she could think of nothing else, particularly with a couple of glasses of champagne chipping at her resolve. It was a relief to step out into the cool February air that evening, but she had barely made it twenty metres when she heard a voice calling her, or rather Claudia’s, name. She turned around to see Guy Somé running towards her with a bag in his hand.

“Sorry,” she grinned apologetically, “Didn’t recognise my own name.”

“Well for fuck’s sake don’t do it again, I don’t generally run for anybody, love. But I wanted to give you this.”

He held out the bag, which was made of high quality glossy black card and bore his initials picked out in crystals. The handles were made of wide, zebra pattered ribbon and its contents were shrouded in fuchsia pink tissue paper.

“What is it?” Robin wondered if it related to the case, she couldn’t imagine why else he’d be chasing after her.

“It’s a thank you present, for getting involved in this lunacy - and for Lula. Your hunky business partner told me when I met him to discuss the arrangements for this week that he couldn’t have done it without you…he was not amused with my assumption that you were some pretty little air-headed secretary, I can tell you.”

She smiled, “I should think not.”

“Anyway, sorry about that, and thanks again. Lula was a great person, she didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“No,” Robin agreed. “Well, I need to catch my train, but I’ll see you over the rest of the week I’m sure, and thank you,” she raised the bag, “…this is really kind.”

“My pleasure, although I should warn you, I’m not sure it’s your usual style, but you’re a gorgeous girl and I know you can pull it off.”

She was walking away when she heard him add, “Sometimes you need to step outside your comfort zone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to follow me on Tumblr (also RobinLeStrange) for updates...I have various Strike fanfics currently in progress!  
> If anyone reading is also a Richard Armitage fangirl (Spooks, Robin Hood, North & South, Strikeback), you can read my previous forays in to fan fic here: https://www.wattpad.com/user/womblingfree1


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin decides to leave her comfort zone behind, and Strike gets a surprise visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? ALL the pining in this chapter!

If Robin had been distracted during the course of the afternoon, sitting on the tube alone with her thoughts was sheer torture. Every time she leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes images of Strike and Ciara filled her brain, then her wicked imagination would replace Ciara with herself.

_Stop it, don’t go there, not now…_

She put her earbuds in and fired up Spotify, which turned out to have the complete opposite of the desired effect. It automatically kicked in to a playlist of what could only be described as sex music, which she’d carefully curated for her own enjoyment when she was in the bath a couple of nights previously and her mind had very much ‘gone there’… She felt herself flushing as she scrambled for her phone and switched to a podcast about digital privacy laws, rubbing her eyes and sighing with relief at finding something that might persuade her errant brain to think of something other than Cormoran.

Cormoran...his hands, his mouth, that tuft of dark hair visible at the top his chest when an extra shirt button came undone, the view she sometimes got as she walked into his office of the side of his neck and the urge she always had these days to push the collar of his shirt aside and trail her lips down the expanse of skin to his collar bone. She was beginning to regret suggesting a meeting at the office to catch up. There was nothing she couldn’t have told him on the phone or in a text, and now she didn’t know how she was even going to look him in the eye. It was Friday night, and a weekend’s worth of breathing space had never seemed like a better idea.

As the tube neared her stop, she checked the time, and realising she was on the early side, decided to stop in the Tottenham for a quick one to calm her nerves before heading to Denmark Street.

* * *

A couple of hundred yards away, Strike was having similar problems focussing. A change of plans on behalf of the mark he was due to be tailing had meant a day of paperwork in the office for him, and it wasn’t nearly interesting enough to keep his mind from wandering to his business partner. He’d done pretty well until lunchtime, when he’d received her message:

_**“Absolute madness here…and guess what? Ciara Porter is coming in to replace one of the models who’s not turned up for Guy! No plans tonight so thought I’d swing by for a catch up when I’ve finished, unless you’ve got something on? Rx”** _

Rx. He knew she signed off nearly all her texts that way, but it still made his heart skip a beat when he saw that kiss at the end. It marked him out, if nothing else, as more than a business partner. They were friends at least, maybe even best friends, and now she was free of Matthew…

_Not again, get a fucking grip!_

He read her text once more and thought about Ciara, reminiscing about the night they’d spent together. She was a beautiful woman, surprising intelligent and funny, and it had been just what he needed in the aftermath of Charlotte. Now, however, when he sat back with his eyes closed and tried to relive the most interesting details of the brief time they’d spent together, it wasn’t her platinum curls he pictured as her mouth moved slowly down his chest and stomach, but a curtain of sleek strawberry blonde hair.

He picked up his phone and replied:

_**“I’ll be here…surveillance job cancelled so turn up whenever you’re ready. Cx”** _

Strike was less inclined to sign every text with a kiss, but, he reflected, Robin probably didn’t know that. He hauled himself out of his chair, and headed out for fresh air, a fag and a carton of Singapore noodles.

* * *

Robin was halfway through her large glass of white wine, when Guy’s words came back to her...

_“Sometimes you need to step outside your comfort zone.”_

She set down her glass and pulled the designer bag up onto the seat next to her, rifling through the pink tissue paper until she was able to pull the contents free. She let out a small gasp and her eyes widened at the creation in her hands. It was a dress, a beautiful, stunning dress but as he had correctly assumed, one that was a million miles away from something Robin would have picked for herself. It was short, she guessed about mid-thigh taking into account her own height, and made from what appeared to be lightweight chainmail, jet black but with a finish that made it sparkle different colours like an oil slick on tarmac. It was completely lined in black silk and trimmed with black leather which tailed like laces from the neckline. It took her several moments of further inspection before she realised how it fastened. The neckline was a relatively high halter style and the laces needed to go over the shoulders, and then criss-cross several times across the back, threading through tiny metal loops at either side of the dress and tying at waist level, securing the front of the dress whilst rendering it backless apart from the leather laces holding it in place.

She checked the time on her phone and re-read Strike’s reply to her earlier text. …Cx The only other woman she’d seen him regularly use that sign off for was Ilsa. Even his sister, Lucy, didn’t automatically receive an ‘x’. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d sent her a text without one.

_“Sometimes you need to step outside your comfort zone.”_

“Oh, bugger it,” she muttered under her breath, before knocking back the remainder of her wine in one large gulp and heading to ladies with her bags.

* * *

Strike returned to Denmark Street having enjoyed his rather unorthodox combination of fags of fresh air and polished off his noodles. He threw three large bags of crisps on Robin's desk and stocked the small office fridge with four bottles of Doom Bar and a bottle of sauvignon blanc that he'd bought in the corner shop on the way back. It might be nice to have a drink or two together as it was Friday evening, he thought. The Tottenham would be heaving and certainly too loud to make conversation he told himself, attempting to convince himself that his efforts were purely borne of practicality.

Strike checked his watch for the umpteenth time but there was still no sign of Robin. Granted she hadn’t mentioned when she was expecting to reach the office, but he’d have thought she would have arrived by now. Taking advantage of the extra time, he crunched on a couple of extra strong mints to ward off the aroma of tobacco and onions, and made his way to the tiny bathroom on the landing where he splashed his face with cold water, made a cursory attempt at tidying his hair, and rearranged his dishevelled shirt, tucking the soft khaki fabric back into his black jeans and re-rolling the sleeves to sit neatly just below his elbow.

 _Twat_ , he silently admonished himself.

He went back to his office, and attempted to return his attention to the bills he had been paying online, but he was twitchy…where was she? He picked up his phone – no message. He began to tap out a text to her but thought better of it and hit delete. A minute or two later he heard footsteps on the stairs and the office door opening. He jumped up immediately and began heading out to the main office but paused and slowed down for fear of looking a bit desperate. Quite apart from anything else he knew how much it wound Robin up when he showed any overt sign of being of worried about her.

“Alright Rob-….” he broke off abruptly. There was a woman in his office and she had her back to him, but he could tell immediately from her black bobbed hair that it certainly wasn’t Robin. She was also wearing a tiny scrap of sparkly dress and a leather biker jacket – in fact she was about as far removed from Robin appearance-wise as it was possible to get. His heart sank. Even without seeing her face his instincts told him this was going to be anything but straightforward, which would mean either he and Robin would spend the evening dealing with her and have no time to catch up themselves, or he’d have to send Robin home and make do with a phone call over the weekend by way of an update on her case. He stifled a sigh of frustration.

“Cormoran Strike, how can I help?”

The woman turned to face him and watched as his expression traversed from weary, through confused to utter shock in the space of a just a couple of seconds. She extended a hand towards him as she spoke softly.

“Claudia Rowntree. Pleased to meet you Mr Strike.”


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike indulges Robin's desire for a bit of roleplay...up to a point.

Strike already had his hand out to shake that of his visitor and he took Robin’s hand and stroked his thumb gently across her knuckles before letting it go again. In normal circumstances she would have discussed her disguise with him in advance and there would be much teasing and silliness when it was eventually revealed. This was not normal circumstances however, and Strike was so dumbstruck his brain wouldn’t allow him to do anything other than play along, until Robin no doubt got a fit of the giggles and they collapsed on the farty sofa and got stuck into their supplies of crisps and booze.

“Take a seat Miss Rowntree,” he said, suppressing a smirk as he indicated the sofa and dropped down next to her. “What is it that brings you here?”

Robin shrugged off the leather jacket, revealing shimmering bronze shoulders and looked up at him from beneath her false eyelashes, her eyes disconcertingly brown, rather than their usual grey.

“I saw an old friend today and she recommended your services…very highly in fact. Her name is Ciara Porter.”

She waited for the words to sink in, watching for the slightest hint of reaction or understanding. Strike was somewhat nonplussed by the direction things were taking.

_She doesn’t sound like she means investigative services? She must do? What the…?! She’s winding you up, you absolute idiot!_

He took in Robin’s expression. She was giving absolutely nothing away. He knew she had to be on a wind up, but it felt different somehow. He decided to play it safe and play along.

“Well we can offer a range of investigative services from internet-based research to surveillance and counter-surveillance. I can get you a price list and our terms and cond…”

Her finger was resting lightly on his lips and suddenly he could barely breathe. Robin looked into his eyes, and for the final time pondered her next move. Even through the additional haze of two shots of Café Patron, downed for Dutch courage before she left the Tottenham, she realised that she still had a get out of jail free card at this point. She could laugh off everything that had happened so far as a wind up, make a cuppa, crack open the family size bag of Frazzles she’d clocked on her desk, and they could carry on as they were. As they had been for months if not years, and in that moment, the thought was unbearable. She took a deep breath and licked her crimson painted lips before speaking.

“It wasn’t your investigative skills that Ciara recommended…” she stated.

Strike mentally checked himself…yep, still breathing, just, although less sure that his playing along with Robin’s performance had been such a good idea. Then in one fluid movement, she kicked her leg over to straddle his lap and leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “I have needs that require more personal attention, Mr Strike…”

His hands had automatically grasped her hips as she’d settled over him and she felt the slight clutch of his fingertips as she spoke. Giving him no chance to think or object she grasped his face in her hands and brought her lips down to his and suddenly he was kissing her back and every fibre of her body was screaming in relief that this crazy gamble had paid off.

Strike tried to think straight, to make some kind of sense of what was happening and how they’d ended up here so fast, but his brain was a fog of endorphins that were rendering him incapable of any rational thought. He watched the path of Robin’s hands down his chest, undoing his shirt buttons, stroking her fingers through his chest hair as she did so and quickly following their path with her soft lips and tongue. Reaching his waist, she leaned back slightly, failing to stifle a gasp as the movement made her very aware of the effect she was having on him. She fumbled with his belt buckle before moving on to his zip, and it was then that he noticed the tiniest hitch in her breathing and that the trembling of her fingers when they’d made contact with his erection perhaps spoke of something more than mere anticipation.

His mind cleared in an instant and he reached for her hand and pushed her gently off his lap to sit beside him. He didn’t have a hope in hell of making his case with her straddling him in that tiny dress.

“What?” she looked mortified, “I thought you wanted this.” She was blushing furiously beneath her fake tan and her eyes were glistening dangerously as she fought back tears of shame and disappointment.

“Robin,” he held her hand in both of his, stroking it with his thumbs. “There is nothing I want more than this,” it was his turn to blush, “I should’ve thought that was bloody obvious.”

He felt her relax slightly and saw her lips twitch upwards. “Look, I know this is a big deal for you…not on my account of course, but because of…”

“Oh for God’s sake,” she threw her head back in frustration, “…does everything still have to come back to that? How many times have I told you – it was twenty minutes, it doesn’t define me, I don’t want it to define our first time…” she stopped short, realising the implications of what she’d just said. First time implied there would be others and Strike was notoriously wary of relationships. They’d both been skirting around the issues with their own, thus far platonic relationship for so long that even she had no idea what she was expecting to happen after tonight, and she swiftly backtracked, “…or whatever this turns out to be,” she finished, unable to meet his deepening green gaze.

“Whatever?” She could hear the hurt and confusion in his voice, and felt simultaneously awful for causing it, and elated that it appeared to indicate that ‘first time of many’ was what he had in mind as well.

“Robin, I have wanted this, and wanted you for so long now…,” he sighed, “…but if this is a case of me being some kind of safe stepping stone for you until the next stage, the next man…I can’t do that. You mean too much to me as a partner, as a friend, as whatever else we might – I hope - become to one another...” his voice tailed off.

“Of course that’s not what I want,” the tears that she’d been holding at bay overflowed and coursed down her cheeks as she turned to face him, betraying every feeling she’d tried to suppress for months, years, maybe ever since the day he’d flown out of his office and almost knocked her down the stairs to her death. “How could you think that? I’m not the only one with history, you know. When I said ‘first time’…I…I didn’t want you to feel I was expecting something you couldn’t give.”

He smiled and their eyes met again at last. “So we are on the same page then?”

“Looks like it…”

Neither of them would remember who moved first but a moment later Robin was back in his arms and he was kissing her with such gentle passion she felt as though a thousand fireworks were simultaneously going off in her stomach. _If kissing him is this good_ …she thought, just as he broke away.

He softly stroked her cheek, looking at her as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real, that she was there on the sofa in the office, wanting to be with him in every way possible. He stood up, pulling her to her feet alongside him. “I know my flat is hardly the most romantic venue, but at least it doesn’t double as a whoopee cushion.”

She giggled as he pulled her close to him again.

“And one more thing…” She gazed up at him warily as he spoke. “Take that bloody wig off, please.”

“Really? My hair will look like utter shit you know?”

“It won’t but even if it did I wouldn’t care. The truth is I really don’t want to have sex with Claudia Rowntree. I want…” his voice tailed off, unsure whether to continue.

“What?” she whispered, her breathing rapid and shallow, “What do you want Cormoran? Robin looked up at him, realising somewhere in the back of her mind, beyond the alcohol, the raging endorphins and the adrenaline rush his proximity was causing, that she would be tucking this moment away into her memories forever.

He met her gaze with his own, green eyes so dilated they were almost black as he finished his sentence.

“I want to make love to Robin Ellacott.”


	6. Chapter Six

Robin stood, encircled in Strike’s arms, her hands on his chest, thumbs just barely making contact with his skin where she’d previously unbuttoned most of his shirt. She wasn’t entirely sure if she was still breathing and she needed to move but wasn’t convinced her legs would work after hearing Strike’s declaration. Eventually, after several tension filled moments, she gently broke away from him and moved slowly and deliberately to the other side of the desk.

Strike watched her, his heart pounding out a beat of lust and terror combined. His words were too intense, he’d scared her off. And then she spoke.

“I guess I’d better get rid of these as well then,” she smiled slowly, deftly flicking the coloured contact lenses into the waste paper basket. She watched as he closed his eyes, dropped his head back and let out an audible sigh of relief. By the time he opened them again she had removed her wig and was shaking free the glorious mane of strawberry blonde hair that he loved so much and combing it through roughly with her fingers.

 _There she is_ , he thought tenderly… _my Robin…at last._

He reached out his hand, and she took it, and together they climbed the stairs his flat.

* * *

Strike entered first, followed by Robin who closed the door with a soft click and rested back against it. They stood looking at each other, neither quite knowing how to pick up where they had left off a few minutes previously.

“So…” he rumbled, smiling shyly at her. It was a very beguiling look on a man that she was so used to seeing as gruff and in control.

“So…” she repeated. She raised her eyes to meet his and instinctively reached out for him, hooking her fingers into his shirt at around waist level where the buttons remained done up and pulling him to her. Then one hand slid around his waist and the other curled around the nape of his neck, fingers twisting into the soft curls there as she pulled his lips down to hers.

He cradled her face in his hands as they kissed, stroking her cheeks with his broad thumbs before tangling his fingers through her lustrous hair, failing to prevent a husky groan escaping his lips as he did so. She used it to deepen the kiss further, freeing the last few shirt buttons and running her fingers smoothly across the expanse of soft, dark hair that covered his chest and stomach as she explored his mouth with her tongue. He returned the onslaught enthusiastically before capturing her swollen lower lip and tugging it gently between his teeth. She whimpered at the sensation and arched slightly against him, the movement bringing her into contact with his obvious arousal and making her gasp with pleasure at the effect she was having.

“Fuck…Robin,” he was breathless as he pulled back from her slightly, lacing his fingers between hers and pulling her towards the bed, “How the hell do we get you out of this dress?” He surveyed her quizzically. “More to the point…how the hell did you get into it?

She had pushed his shirt off and now she raised her eyes from where she was busy dropping tiny, wet kisses along his collarbone and upper chest. “Carefully,” she replied, her eyes twinkled with mischief as she added “…and with lots of wriggling.”

He bent his head for another long, slow, passionate kiss then turned her to face away from him, her hands resting on the bedroom wall. She felt his fingertips brush the left side of her neck as he scooped her hair away and replaced it with his lips, firm and warm tracing a path out to her shoulder and then back in to her nape. Another brush of fingertips and he repeated his actions on the right, listening to every tiny alteration in her breathing as he varied the intensity of his kisses, the use of his tongue and his teeth. The laces holding the dress made a grid across her back and he rested his hands on her hips, holding them both steady as he worked his way downwards, planting more kisses on each slim triangle of bare skin.

_Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred…_

He had already lost count.

Finally, he reached the knot at her waist. He toyed with it as he rose back up, rested his stubbled cheek against hers and whispered in her ear, “Sure?”

She turned to face him, eyes glittering “I’ve been sure for longer than you can possibly imagine, Cormoran.”

His lips were on hers again in an instant, his arms tight around her, his head spinning at the way she said his name. His hands stroked her back as he smoothly released the leather laces and pulled them free of the metal hooks until only the weight of them resting over her shoulders was keeping the dress in place. Robin pushed him back, her eyes never once leaving his as she reached her hands up and pulled the laces away, pushing at the waist of the dress so it slid down her body and puddled on the floor at her feet with a gentle metallic swish.

The expression on his face as his gaze travelled over every inch of her perfect body, clad only in black lace shorts, was almost enough to make her orgasm on the spot. His eyes were almost black, his lips parted and a hint of flush was creeping up his neck and cheeks. She could hear the change in his breathing and for a fleeting moment Matthew popped into her head. He had never looked at her the way Cormoran was looking at her now, and she was glad. In this moment she felt the most complete, powerful and turned on she had ever felt and there was no way she’d have ever wanted to experience that with anyone other than the man who stood two feet in front of her.

Strike took a deep breath to regain some semblance of composure, his tongue running briefly over his lips before he spoke softly.

“Robin Ellacott, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”

She smiled as she crossed the tiny gap that separated them and reached up for another kiss, relishing the guttural moan that escaped him as he felt her breasts brush against his naked chest for the first time.

“You’re not so bad yourself…” she replied, “…although you’re a bit overdressed, but we can work on that.”

Another kiss…this time fiercer and more passionate. They tumbled onto the bed and then Strike was above her and she was gazing at him with blue-grey eyes that reminded him of the reflection of the sky in a puddle after a thunderstorm, her hair fanned out across the pillow. He continued his exploration of her mouth with his tongue whilst drifting his hands over her naked torso, his light touch driving her to distraction as he purposefully avoided any particularly obvious erogenous zones until she was squirming beneath him in desperation. Only then did he slide his hands up from her waist to cup and stroke her breasts, teasing her nipples with his fingertips before trailing soft kisses down her throat and taking each one in his mouth, curling and flicking his tongue over them and then drawing them gently into his hot, wet mouth.

“Cormoran…” she breathed, rocking against him, instantly frustrated by the fact he was still partially clothed. She pushed him sideways onto this back, following his path to lay over him, returning his ministrations, kissing him thoroughly before her lips worked their way along his darkly stubbled jaw, over his earlobe, down his neck and along his collarbone. Her fingertips were cool against his heated skin as she swirled them through the hair that covered his body and tentatively teased his nipples, increasing the pressure when she heard him groan at her touch.

Propped up against a substantial heap of pillows he opened his eyes to see her golden head begin to work it’s down his chest and over his stomach. She unfastened his trousers, unflinching this time, hooked her fingertips into the waistband and pulled them down, backing off the end of the bed to carefully remove them over his stump.

“I’d better deal with that,” he murmured apologetically, making to sit upright, but Robin had seen him remove his prosthesis many times before. She rested her hand on the ‘ankle’ of the artificial limb and looked at him for approval,

“May I?” she whispered.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday night smut - Part 2!

He nodded and watched in silent awe as she calmly pressed the mechanism that released the prosthesis from its socket, pulled it gently away and rested it against the wall. Her hands drifted up to his thigh and she slowly rolled back the silicone socket to free his stump.

“Okay?” she checked.

No-one had ever done that for him before. It was a necessary but somewhat awkward precursor to any kind of bedroom activity, and yet somehow Robin had managed to turn into a moment of sweet intimacy between the two of them. He swallowed hard, aware of the lump that had formed in his throat as he’d watched her and nodded again.

“Thank you.”

She noticed the flicker that crossed his face and was desperate to both comfort and distract him. She crawled back up the bed, straddling him, her hair curtaining their faces as she bent to kiss him again, then lowered herself down so she was pressing her core against his substantial erection, her fingers locking with his for support. She couldn’t prevent a moan of pleasure escaping her lips as she made contact and moved her hips deliberately and leisurely up and down his length, aware that only a small scrap of lace and his thin jersey boxers separated them.

He watched her moving above him, writhing beneath his touch as he stroked up her waist to caress her breasts. He tried to control his breathing and focus his thoughts on anything that would prevent the inevitable without going too far in the other direction. He never wanted this to end but at the same time he was already seeing stars.

And then she was moving slowly backwards, tugging his dark grey boxers down his muscular thighs, deliberately grazing his skin with her fingertips as she went. He heard her sharp intake of breath as his impressive cock was revealed and permitted himself a smug smirk, which lasted mere moments before she took him in hand and began to stroke his entire length.

“God…Robin, that feels so good,” his voice was hoarse, his throat dry.

“Mmm?” she murmured in response, “How about this?”

She tipped her head forward allowing her curtain of silky hair to drift across him, and he almost bucked off the bed – how had she known that was one of his favourite fantasies? She held onto his hips, pushing him down into the bed and continued the action, all the while moving closer and closer… He could feel her warm breath on his shaft and his entire body tensed in anticipation, then she raised one hand, flipped her hair back off her face and looked him directly in the eye as she took him her mouth.

“Jesus Christ!” His head fell back against the pillows and he let out a husky groan. She was aware of his large hands clutching at the sheets beside her head and he felt her lips twitch with pleasure as they moved up and down his length. In the distance though, a voice in his head was calling him back, he couldn’t allow this to go any further, not without giving her the same kind of pleasure first.

With an effort of iron will he twisted forward, pulling her face back to his and engulfing her lips with a kiss that was nothing short of incendiary. He could taste his own salty, muskiness as his tongue filled her mouth then retreated as she chased it with her own, teeth gently grazing lips, hands everywhere. He flipped her onto her back and rolled his hips against her mound, the pressure causing her to cry out his name, as warmth flooded her body. His arm was around her waist, lifting her further up the bed as his hands moved lower, roughly despatching the lace knickers that were the final barrier between them, and failing to suppress a whispered, “Fuck, you feel so good,” as his slipped his fingers between her thighs and into her silken heat.

She ground her hips against his fingers as he worked them slowly in and out of her centre, whilst maintaining a steady circular motion around her clit with his thumb. Her breath was coming in short, uneven gasps interspersed with whimpers and moans of pleasure. His mouth travelled unhurriedly down the length of her body, traversing her collar bone, breasts, rib cage and stomach, anointing each area with warm, tender kisses which were completely at odds with the dextrous movement of his fingers driving her rapidly to the edge of reason.

As his lips moved even lower she couldn’t resist opening her eyes and watching his close in ecstasy as he replaced his fingers with his tongue, laving against her before capturing her swollen clit between those gloriously uneven lips and sucking gently. Robin’s body arched involuntarily, and she almost screamed in pleasure. Her vocal response and the sensation of her short, sharp fingernails digging into the muscles at his shoulders caused a surge of masculine pride to fill Strike’s chest and much to his surprise, stiffen his cock even further. Frankly he hadn’t thought that was physically possible, but now her hands were in his hair and she was desperately trying to pull him away.

“Cormoran, stop...please stop,” she gasped, “…or I’ll cum.”

From his perfect position between her thighs he eyed her with amusement and curiosity, mouth twitching, green eyes sparkling up at her from beneath dark brows and lashes. She was taken back to the day he’d offered her a partnership in the business and kissed her hand at the door to number six Denmark Street. His expression was similar to the way he’d looked at her then, albeit a million times more x-rated.

 _God, I love you Cormoran_ , she thought.

“I’m…not…sure…why…that…should…be…a…problem,” he murmured, punctuating his words with kisses as he moved back up her body, to brush her hair back from her face and gaze into her liquid storm coloured eyes.

She pulled his head down and tugged at his earlobe with her teeth, exploring the whorl of flesh and cartilage with her hot tongue before whispering seductively in his ear.

“It is if you’re not inside me when it happens.”

He pressed his head into the soft spot where her shoulder joined her neck, breathing her in and fighting the urge to completely lose control there and then. He was well aware that another line like that from her and they’d be highly unlikely to get that far.

“Do I need a…”

“Implant,” she interrupted, “…unless you’d rather.”

“I think I can trust you,” he laughed softly, nudging her thighs apart gently as her hand drifted down between them to help him into position.

He stroked her cheek, “Look at me Robin.”

And she did, as he pushed slowly into her with one long, deep movement, and when the intensity of the sensation became too much she closed her eyes and remembered a conversation they had once about Kairos moments, and knew this was hers.

They moved together seamlessly, instinctively changing pace and position to obtain the most pleasure for the longest possible duration. Strike couldn’t take his eyes off Robin, marvelling at every perfect inch of her, from the way her hair washed over his pillows, to the warmth of her eyes when she dared to meet his to the sheen and flush of her skin as she drew closer and closer…

By the time she finally came, seconds before Strike, she was barely able to cry out his name, but she did and as he watched her unravel beneath him, he realised briefly but with absolute certainty, that he was experiencing his last first time.

* * *

They dozed afterwards in each other’s arms, exhausted, sated and content. More exhausted than Strike realised in fact, for when he awoke, Robin had disappeared. He pulled himself upright and was scanning the room for his prosthesis when he heard the office door close on the floor below and the familiar tread of her footsteps on the stairs to his flat.

She emerged through the door clad in nothing but his khaki shirt, having clearly raided the office fridge, bottle of wine in one hand, four-pack of Doom Bar in the other and two family-size bags of crisps gripped between her teeth. She grinned at him, as she threw them onto the bed.

“Sorry, I’m famished – haven’t eaten yet…and you know Frazzles are my favourite!”

A broad grin swept across Strike’s face. Only this particular, exceptional woman could make bacon flavour crisps sound like the sexiest thing on earth. He watched her as she located a glass and a bottle opener, poured her wine then made her way back to bed, handing him an opened beer and chinking her glass against it. She took a long sip of cold sauvignon blanc, put her glass on the bedside table and snuggled into his shoulder, raising her eyes to look up at him.

He looked magnificent she thought, naked and rumpled, drinking his beer in contemplative silence. She broke the cardinal rule she had read about in magazines of ‘what not to ask men’…

“What are you thinking about?”

He put down his beer and pulled her closer as he looked down at her.

“Matthew,” he replied honestly.

Robin sat up in shock. “Cormoran, what the fuck?!”

“Hear me out,” he pulled her back down to his chest, stroking her hair. “I always thought he was a moron for cheating on you, but now I know he must have been absolutely insane if he couldn’t wait eighteen months. I’d have happily waited eighteen years for the last hour with you.”

 _Or eighteen lifetimes, if necessary,_ he mused to himself.

Robin registered the slowly increasing swelling beneath the duvet and reached her hand down to hasten its development. She was rewarded with Strikes’s sharp intake of breath as she turned her face to his once again, and with a cheeky grin, replied, “It seems to me about eighteen minutes is more than enough.”

She experienced only a fleeting second of regret as he pulled her close and kissed her for what seemed like the millionth time already that evening, and she heard a distant rustle and thud at the end of the bed.

_Fuck it! The Frazzles could wait…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who has read and enjoyed 'The Model Partner', the kudos and lovely, encouraging comments. It's my first writing for a few years and first for this fandom so it means a lot.
> 
> I'm currently working on a much longer 'sequel' to Lethal White, but have a couple of shorter fics up my sleeve in the meantime, so let me know which you'd like to read next in the comments!
> 
> 1/ An angst ridden trip back in time, set at the end of Career of Evil and told largely in flashback to 2005/6. Featuring Matthew, Sarah, Shanker and the Ellacott family, younger Robin and Strike (on a motorbike...in leathers, just sayin' ;) )Much fuckery with the canon but hopefully worth it (did I mention Strike in motorbike leathers?)
> 
> 2./ Misunderstandings and pining-a-plenty ensure when Robin and Strike are invited to Vanessa and Oliver's wedding - each with a 'plus one'. Set a year after Lethal White and canon compliant, also featuring Nick and Ilsa, Charlotte and a couple of original characters. Shopping, girl talk, drunkenness, despair and dancing.
> 
> Both will no doubt feature the usual ratio of fluff and smut - this is Strike fanfic after all!


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